Friday, August 31, 2012

One might hope that one's idiosyncrasies would mellow with time and age, and to a certain extent, some of mine have. But my anxieties have only multiplied as they diminish my quality of life and self-limit me in the things that I can do and the enjoyment I can get out of life. I trace the beginnings of this anxious phase back several years when I lost the ability to fly on airplanes. It began in July 2005 when I flew from California to Massachusetts for my dear high school friend Diana's wedding. (Diana passed away from leukemia last December, leaving her husband and their lovely daughter.) Close to my destination, the plane suddenly lost altitude very quickly. I don't know how far we dropped or how long it lasted, but it was long enough for people to scream and for me to utter "Oh, God! Oh, God!" several times. I never particularly enjoyed flying before, yet I was never overly bothered by it either. But that experience eroded the disconnect between the experience and my anxiety. Over the subsequent years, even though I only flew once or twice a year, my terror grew. Every time the plane shakes, my flight/fight reflex is triggered and I panic. It grew steadily worse until I flew the last time several years ago on a return trip from visiting my parents at Christmas. I had taken several Vicodin before the flight. (Tranquilizers have no effect on me.) But I was still a nervous wreck after being a nervous wreck the entire trip as I dreaded the flight home. So now all of the wondrous vistas opened by the advent of safe, reliable air travel have firmly shut for me.

But wait there's more! Anxiety is an insatiable beast that will consume a person's entire life if it's able! (e.g. Howard Hughes) When I was living in Los Angeles, I had a job that I absolutely loved at a firm that I just adored. I worked in their downtown office on the 20th floor. The height never bothered me at all, and I was able to visit even higher floors without being troubled by anxiety. Then an earthquake hit while I was at work. It wasn't a very strong one, between 5 and 6 on the Richter scale, and it didn't really bother me at the time. But I am cursed with an active, vivid imagination, and I started to imagine what it would be like to be so high up if the "big one" hit. To make a long story short, I soon began to be increasingly agitated by being on the 20th floor, and it got to the point where I can no longer stand to be high up in buildings. This was the deciding factor in my decision to move back to Memphis from Los Angeles since I ended up having to leave my job. (The move actually wasn't as devastating as one might expect because I knew I'd be practical about the whole thing, realizing that I can be miserable in Memphis just as easily as in Los Angeles.) So now my anxiety has robbed me of my ability to be higher than the tenth floor without feeling nervous, and I have the thought, "How high up is that office/hotel room/etc.?" constantly in the back of my mind. And my world continues to shrink...

Lately my anxiety complaint du jour is an increase in panic attacks. While I've struggled with feeling anxious as long as I can remember, I haven’t actually suffered too many panic attacks until recently, and for that I am grateful! The first time I had one—as a child after obsessing about the murder of Bob Crane and dreaming of being stabbed—I wanted to kill myself so that I would never have to feel that afraid again. I don’t know if I’m right on schedule with some kind of midlife crisis, but just hearing about dying or the death of someone makes me fixate on the inevitability of my own demise until I am certain I am having a heart attack. (I feel it even now, writing this.) I cannot fathom what kind of twisted design of God or nature made the physical symptoms of panic—chest pain/tightness, lightheadedness, palpitations, tingling in the extremities—almost identical to a heart attack.

I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours

But I think that God’s got a sick sense of humour…

{Depeche Mode, “Blasphemous Rumours}

I personally blame my alchoholism for my midlife spike in anxiety. It's a scientific fact that prolonged, extensive alcohol abuse damages the brain. While I only have my intuition to base it upon, I believe that my alcohol abuse damaged my ability to regulate and handle anxiety.

Where my Memphis and L.A. lives intersect... I was reminded of my anxiety prison by the reports of the recent Southern California earthquake "swarm" that occurred earlier this week. Jonathan, who works in the same office building in Los Angeles where I used to work, told me that they were focused in Imperial County and that he didn't feel them at home or work. (He's on the 31st floor!) But I shudder just to think about it all the same.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

My old "Hiking with Homosexuals" group sent me an e-mail about an upcoming social they're having with the graphic below in it. Res ipsa loquitur...

Heartwarming Story

The video below tells the story of a gay college student who was being bullied in the form of vandalism to his car. A local garage found out and offered to fix (and improve) his vehicle for free. I love stories like this, and sometimes I have a hard time wrapping my head around them because it is such a stark difference to the homophobic world I grew up in. When I was growing up, I'm pretty sure that everyone around me would be saying that the gay guy just got what was coming to him. I certainly wouldn't have expected anybody to sympathize and assist him, especially someone from a "blue collar" profession like automotive repair. I'm astounded by the difference a couple of decades can make, and it gives me such hope for the future.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Well, I've managed to let myself get too tired again. And so now I have an aching desire for recreational chemicals. I really, really would like to get fucked up on some narcotics, just to melt into that (albeit artificial) happy place, just to remind myself that such a state-of-being exists. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't have a lot of options in that respect. But tell that to the gnawing hunger deep in the pit of my stomach, the absolutely desperate need to have my pleasure centers stimulated. Sobriety is so dead boring. It's not the dramatic moment of flushing pills down the toilet at the end of the film, fade to black. It's the days, the weeks, the months, the years after.

Eleventh Hour Update

As I left work I was hatching a scheme to get my hands on some narcotics. I was going to go to a minor medical clinic and get a prescription for Lomotil , an anti-diarrheal drug. It's an extremely mild opiate mixed with another drug to prevent abuse. However, as part of my generally fucked up brain chemistry, I have a high tolerance for anticholinergics, so I can take a fistful of Lomotil for a mild buzz.

I ended up not putting my plan into action, even though it would have worked like a charm. I didn't NOT do it because it was the best thing for my future or "the right thing to do." I just didn't want to deal with the aftermath. I would have been extremely depressed for at least the next couple of days. And while I would have loved playing my video game while high—It would have been heaven!—I didn't want to deal with the fact that I wouldn't be able to play the game again while sober. Keeping up with my sobriety meant busting my budget and my diet, however. I was feeling so depressed I had to do something, so I bought a cheese calzone, a pint of Ben & Jerry's and the second season of "Modern Family." I only have so much willpower to go around.

Funny...And the gay couple calls each other"boyfriends," not "partners"!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Yesterday in the news there was yet another public shooting! What is that, the sixth one in so many weeks? The horrible thing is that I can't even keep them straight any more. It seems to me that the absolute worst case scenario has unfolded: People have stopped being shocked by these shootings as they have become "commonplace." Obviously the involved communities are devastated, but it seems the national consciousness is starting to gloss over these reports as if they're not as deserving of our attention as Snooki's baby.

Read the comments on the shooting articles, and you will find that pro-gun lobby can hardly wait to say "Hold on, I thought guns were banned in [insert city]. I guess those anti-gun laws really work! *sarcasm*" When the nearest gun is less than an hour's car ride away and there are all sorts of exceptions put into place, local gun ordinances don't mean a lot, so their spurious argument means nothing. Personally, I'm not necessarily even in favor of an outright ban on firearms, but is it really necessary to have a nation flooded with military-grade weaponry whose only function seems to be arming militias who can't deal with the fact a black man was elected president? The reactionary wet dream that unregulated arms are a necessity for the time (coming any day now, if not here already) when righteous white people will have to take back the country from the tyranny of fascist multicultural liberals shouldn't be the basis for intelligent, enlightened public policy. Where is the common sense and the middle ground? (Ah, the dying cry of an avowed political moderate...)Goodbye, Prince CharmingOn the one hand, I have to give myself props for spending so much time today tidying up my apartment. I have my laptop set up downstairs in the dining area as a makeshift workstation. In theory it's supposed to be set up for my writing, but in practice it's been more of a gaming center. Bailey had taken to sleeping on a paper box top on the card table next to me, so I put a towel in there to create a little kitty bed for him. Anyway, too many late nights and too many snacks were starting to make the area remind me of the gaming loser from that South Park episode.

"Do not go gentle into that good night..."

While I have gotten into the habit of coming home at lunch and doing a bit of cleaning, things were still getting out of hand. So I was proud of myself for cleaning the accumulated detritus and tumbleweeds of cat fur. Unfortunately, as I checked myself walking to the laundry center in a pair of gym shorts with an indiscreet rip, a t-shirt stretched over my gut and black socks with dress shoes, it occurred to me that I have truly thrown in the towel as far as my appearance—and any hope of having any future relationship prospects—are concerned.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

I don't consider myself particularly partisan, and I am a political moderate. I get equally irritated with both extremes and have an extremely low tolerance for rhetoric. I'm sick of hearing about the "Culture War," and I think I will scream if I hear any more of the intellectually lazy buzzwords used by the right and the left in place of true political discourse. That said, I am definitely planning to vote for Barack Obama for a second term, and I think George W. Bush was the worst president we ever had. While I'm not smart enough to weigh in on the public policy details of universal healthcare, I also do firmly believe that healthcare should be a right, not a privilege, and am amazed when people in an allegedly first world country point to this as the worst thing Obama has done.

In that same vein, I am reposting a nifty little pro-Barack, anti-G.W. piece that I came across a few years ago. I wish I could attribute authorship, but I have no clue where I got it from. I'm hoping that ignorance is a defense in copyright law. (There is one advantage to writing a blog no one reads.)

When Do You Get Mad?

You didn't get mad when over 200,000 U.S. Citizens lost their lives because they
had inadequate care and no health insurance.

You didn't get mad when we gave people who had more money than they could
spend, the filthy rich, over a trillion dollars in tax breaks.

You didn't get mad when lack of oversight and regulations from the Bush
Administration caused U.S. Citizens to lose 12 trillion dollars in investments,
retirement and home values.

You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.

You didn't get mad when Bush rang up 10 trillion dollars in combined budget and
current account deficits.

You didn't get mad when we let a major U.S. city, New Orleans, drown.

You didn't get mad when GOP Joe Barton (rep. Texas) apologized to BP for BP
having to pay people that were affected, displaced by the oil spill.

You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed
a President.

You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed energy company officials to dictate
energy policy and push us to invade Iraq.

You didn't get mad that at the end of the Bush presidency we were loosing 750,000 jobs a MONTH.

You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to
us.

You didn't get mad when we spent over 800 billion (and counting) on said
illegal war.

You didn't get mad when Bush borrowed more money from foreign sources than the
previous 42 Presidents combined.

You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars in cash just disappeared in
Iraq.

You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people!!!!

You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed.

You didn't get mad when Bush embraced trade and outsourcing policies that
shipped 6 million American jobs out of the country.

You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.

You didn't get mad when, as a result of of the reckless harm done by the Bush administration, our country might never be able to fully recover...

No...You finally got mad when a black man was elected President and decided
that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick!...

Friday, August 17, 2012

My inability to learn from my past mistakes is astounding. I drank 14 beers last night, smoking the entire time, and woke up feeling gross. I managed to make it in to work only 25 minutes late, and I claimed that my power went out and reset my alarm clock. The sad thing is that I gave serious consideration to drinking tonight. I've got this aching emptiness inside of me, and it compels me to pursue anything that might fill it, even for a moment, with a feverish madness. The vague promises of a better future are not enough to stop me from mortgaging my potential for instant gratification, which keeps me from bridging the gulf between my life as it is now and the life I want have.

The Limits of Empiricism

I read an article about a substance constructed by scientists harder than diamonds. What is the name of the basic component of this material? "Buckyball"! That's right, they gave a substance with amazing properties and potential applications in fields as diverse as engineering to medical science the name of a child's toy. A cheap-sounding toy, at that. It's scientific name is "Buckminsterfullerene," but that's hardly an improvement. It sounds like the name of a show dog. According to the Wikipedia article, it was named for a "noted futurist and inventor." It's great to honor people, but I really don't think they thought this through.

"That's the problem with science. You've got a bunch of empiricists trying to describe things of unimaginable wonder."
{Calvin, "Calvin and Hobbes"}

Thursday, August 16, 2012

My friend Jonathan has promised me that the only thing standing between this blog in its present obscurity and internet fame are apparently a lack of cat pictures. (Said promise was implicitly implied and represents an enforceable contract, BTW.) I really, really try to avoid the "cat mad spinster" cliché. In fact, (almost) all of the cat-related items that I own—i.e. magnets, books and *cringe* oven mitts—were given to me by friends and family members. (My mother gave me the oven mitts, so I could never bear to get rid of them.) But I'm also a whore, so I will happily comply.

I personally have two cats: Bailey, my 15 year old male, and Pfeiffer, my 13 year old female.

Bailey is an orange and yellow tabby. He is as dumb as a box of hammers and a complete shit. Don't get me wrong, I've had him since he was a kitten, and I love him more than anything. But nobody else who has ever met him feels the same way. (My sister, who lived with him for a summer, calls him "Kitt-iot.") Bailey was named after Tom Bailey, lead singer of the Thompson Twins, my all-time favorite group.

My personal rock god

Pfeifer is grey with some striping. I got her as an adult from a cat shelter as a companion for Bailey because I was worried that I wasn't giving him enough attention. She is incredibly sweet-natured if a little clingy and needy. She wants to be petted 24/7, and I do my best to accommodate her, particularly when she taps me with her paw to let me know that petting is required. Pfeiffer was named after the lovely and talented Michelle Pfeiffer and her sexy, sensual depiction of cat woman.

"Meow" indeed!

So without further ado, I bring you...

Michael's Kitties on Parade!
﻿

Bailey sez, No pictures! No pictures!

﻿

Pfeiffer, in repose

﻿

All shall love me and despair!

A dainty little pose

Cuddling in their younger days

Cuddling while channeling the devil

﻿

The Foundling

Of course, I'd be remiss without posting a couple of kitten pictures. I fostered this adorable little kitten after he was found in the downtown parking garage across the street from where I worked. Bailey & Pfeiffer were amazingly and actively disinterested in expanding into a threesome, but I found the little guy a wonderful home with the crazy aunt of one of my co-workers. (I look like I have him in a death grip in the second photo, but I was just trying to hold him still for the picture. I promise I was being gentle.)

The LOLCats

Finally, I bring you the obligatory LOLCat, especially for fans of Batman's The Dark Knight.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Last night I did an internet search on Colin Farrell, making sure I was spelling his name correctly in my post about Total Recall. Anyway, I found out that he was the victim of a stalker, who actually rushed him during the live taping of a "Tonight Show" interview. She claims that Farrell had been stalking her and that she was only trying to serve him with court papers. She self-published a book titled Colin Farrell: A Dark Twisted Puppy and a song "Colin Farrell Is My Bitch."

She also posted a YouTube rant that you can play below.

Leaving the issue of whether or not her claims have any merit whatsoever aside, I at first thought it was funny just watching her crazy unfold unchecked. But then I started to think about how sad it all is, how much pain she must be in and what traumas in her life (and probably childhood) brought her to this point.

She reminds me of a tableau I once witnessed while living in Hollywood. This guy in unconvincing drag and a cheap blonde wig was screaming at his boyfriend about how he didn't love him. It was quite the scene, and I wasn't the only spectator, even in jaded Los Angeles. Everyone I told the story to remarked about how hysterical it all must have been, but really I just felt sorry for the guy. It was obvious that he was hurting and unhappy, and again one can only imagine the experiences that had brought his life to that point.

A Basket Case Myself

Perhaps I can sympathize more than most because I'm one misfired synapse away from a complete mental breakdown. Sometimes it's all I can do not to burst into tears while watching the mawkish resolution of some uninspired sitcom or even a saccharine children's cartoon. All of that unresolved emotion bubbling under the surface of my consciousness is truly frightening to me sometimes.

Austerity Measures

Day 2 and still on track. Of course, once again, whenever I do anything with an eye towards the future, my anxieties go into overtime (see above). For the time being, I will change to a different kind of personal roundup:

Diet: Followed without cheatingGym: WentFinances: No extraneous purchases

Monday, August 13, 2012

OK, last week was less than a stellar week for getting my body and my finances into shape. I drank one night, and I am officially maxed out on all of my credit cards. My eating has been unchecked, including an unfortunate encounter with ice cream. (Keep in mind that my doctor has warned me that I'm pre-diabetic and need to drastically change my habits.)

So today is the day I climb back up on that wagon. I've stuck to my diet, and I even dragged myself to the gym. Time will tell...

A Hunk of Inspiration

I went to see Total Recall last weekend. (Speaking of reboots, more on that below...) One of the previews was for the upcoming James Bond film, starring hunky Daniel Craig. And I decided that he would be my weight loss inspiration. It's not that I think I'm going to end up looking like his twin. Instead it's more the fact that he is my age (a couple of years older, actually). Since he is still (rightly) being cast as a hottie, it makes me think that it's not too late for me to be the fittest and best-looking I've ever been.

This is me Summer 2013 (Tentative)

So Was It Real? Or Rekall?

***WARNING: SPOILER ALERT***

Even though it hasn't had the best reviews, I really enjoyed Total Recall. Colin Farrell did a great job and is definitely easy on the eyes. The question at the end of the film is whether any of it actually happened or was it all the fake memories his character sought to have implanted from Total Rekall. I have a theory that people like me—people whose grip on reality is a little shaky—tend to believe it was all a hallucination while the more firmly grounded take it at face value.

Assuming everything that happens in the movie is occurring in "real" life, it begs the question about the main character's redemption and change of heart. Colin Farrel's character was the top, most ruthless intelligence agent working for the fascist government. He used the technology employed by Total Rekall to infiltrate the rebel leadership so that even he was unaware of being a double-agent. However, his constructed persona truly sympathized with the rebels and assisted them in achieving their goals, even after he found out the truth. (This plot device was actually almost identically explored in one of my recent video games, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic.)

Looking beyond the happy ending brought on by the main characters' refusal to go back to being his former "evil" self, what does it say about the nature of humans when his internal morality is imposed upon him by an external set of chemistry? Now the materialist would argue that this demonstrates human beings are nothing more that wetware with absolutely no self-determination or free will. Consciousness is an illusion and nothing more than a pre-determined chemical reaction. But I would suggest that the spiritually minded could just easily argue that it simply demonstrates the fact that God/the universe/life gives everyone a chance a redemption. What do you think?

Friday, August 10, 2012

I really, really enjoy computer role-playing video games (CRPG's), especially ones with vibrant characters and a great plot. I think I've distilled my obsession with gaming into a few critical areas. In video games (as opposed to my real life):

I can eventually overcome every obstacle put in front of me;

I have some measure of control over my life and surroundings;

I can develop my relationships and my interpersonal needs exactly to plan;

I have an impact on the world around me, usually in a monumentally positive way; and

I actually matter.

As much as I like the games I like, I'm unusually particular about the ones I'm interested in, so I can go weeks or months without finding one that captures my imagination. I've never got into any of the massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPG's) because I play games to escape real life and my problems, so I don't really want to be surrounded by a bunch of socially maladjusted, emotionally stunted nerds like myself when I'm gaming.

Anyway, lately I've been wasting my time with two Star Wars video games that came out several years ago. Last weekend I finished Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. And now I am working on the sequel, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords. Both games take place about 4,000 years before the events in the movies so they don't have a lot of bearing on the film canon. In both games you can develop your character as a noble Jedi or a dark Sith. I take the Jedi path because, since video games are a surrogate for the deficiencies in my real life, I want to help people in ways I wish I could help others around me.

Make no mistake, video games can definitely be addictive. Every so often you find a story about a gamer collapsing (or even dying!) after marathon gaming binges, and Amsterdam has opened the first video game addiction clinic. I'm not quite that bad, but as an addict/addictive personality type, I will obsess about anything that stimulates the pleasure centers in my brain. Maturity for me has always been an uphill battle, kicking and screaming. But even in my more responsible middle age I will stay up way too late on a work night or ignore practical matters like laundry when I get caught up in video game fever.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

I've spent a lot of years observing men's behavior in public restrooms. Not in the way you might be thinking of! (OK, there was that one time...) But I've notice that a lot of guys adopt a particular stance—striking a kind of pose, if you will—while at the urinal. My theory is that using a public urinal produces a vestigial feeling of vulnerability that brings out a defensive instinct, and a guy's stance is a learned behavior designed to overcome this. Or maybe people are just weird.

Here are the archetypes which I have personally observed:

The Plain Jane: Purely functional...Get in, get out.

The Multitasker: Reading something held in one hand.

The Gregarious: Talking or texting on a cell phone.

The Teapot: One fist on a hip, arm crooked.

The Superhero: Both fists on hips, feet wide apart.

The Eyes-On-Your-Own-Work: Hunched over, shielded from view.

The Eyes-On-Other's-Work: Has a roving gaze. Not necessarily gay, might just be doing a comparative analysis.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

I try, but see no benefit in the trying. Every time I try to improve my lot in life, I'm sure tragedy is just around the corner. I'm certain that I'm about to drop dead from a heart attack (I can even feel one coming on when the panic overtakes me), and all of my effort is wasted time and energy.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Considering how dedicated I am to the principle of the preciousness of life and the preservation of life, it is ironic how much I actually thoroughly despise being alive.

Last night, in a rare moment of quietude from my elder cat Bailey, I was stroking him gently while I lay down in bed. Bailey is fifteen years old, which translates to roughly 76 years old in human terms. He used to be a large cat, but now he has shriveled down to almost literally skin and bones. He has access to food 24/7, but age has diminished his apetite and his body's ability to create muscle and fat.

I spiralled down into thinking how it won't be long before Bailey is gone from me forever. I raised him from a kitten, and I know that his loss will devastate me. I know also that I will torture myself for the rest of my days with memories of every sharp word, every unkindness I ever showed him and berate myself into believing that I never did right by him.

Life is nothing but an endless process of decay. Our lives slip away from us and break down until every thing that we hold dear and everything that we cherish dissipates into the entropic unraveling of being. We greedily snatch what little moments of pleasure we can actually steal from life, but it is little more than a lie and an illusion to get us through our days.

Stop the Culture Wars...I Want to Get Off

The Chick-Fil-A fiasco is finally winding down. Last Wednesday thousands of the faithful went out to show their support in an unofficial "Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day." Then last Friday gays around the country protested the chain with a same-sex kissing day. I made the mistake of reading the articles about the events and the tragic mistake of reading the comments.

Opinions are like assholes: Everybody's got one, and they ain't too pretty.

I'm tired of both sides and of endless rhetoric. When I was living with my parents, they used to watch Bill O'Reilly every night while we ate salad together. I had to stop eating with them because I just couldn't stand watching The O'Reilly Factor anymore. It wasn't so much the conservative opinions being expressed as it was that I was fed up with talking heads. My sympathies often lie with the political left, although a lot less often than my conservative parents seem to realize. But the left can be just as fascist and intolerant of dissent as the right. The city councilman trying to bar Chick-Fil-A from being able to open a restaurant in his jurisdiction is a perfect example. That's an abuse of power and totalitarian thinking. Don't infringe on the rights of others, even if you think you are doing it for a noble cause.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Today is Day 1 of my austerity measures in my diet and personal finance. I have a long history of vacillating between overindulgence and austerity. In the two weeks I was supposed to be changing my eating habits to stave off diabetes, I've been drinking (a lot!) and eating pretty much whatever I wanted. All that alcohol is expensive, and I have completely lost control of my finances. But all I can do is try once more. So far, so good with the diet, although I usually get black-flagged on the last lap when I freak out on my "hungry" medicine. I've got a crick in my neck, and I was going to go get a chair massage at lunch. But I decided to save my money instead. Like I said, so far, so good. Talk to me in a week, however.

One By One

So far I've gotten rejections from three of the magazines I sent poems to and the one magazine I sent a short story to. It's hard not to get discouraged when nobody seems interested in what I'm serving up.